Sic Itur ad Astra
by hyperempathie
Summary: Firkle's birthday edges closer and closer as his friends inspect their own lives while attempting to scavenge for a gift. Pete finds a certain affinity towards the tallest member of their quartet.
1. Chapter 1

_But hey, this is the future_  
_ And we don't grow up like that_  
_ Oh we grow teeth and we grow nails_  
_ And we scratch to the bottle when we need_

_"Future Pt 1" - Voxtrot_

* * *

There was something about the smell of cinnamon that drove Pete up the wall and today was no exception. Still, Henrietta leaned over a stained glass with two sticks of incense inside that she'd been burning, the pungent smell was evident in the room, concealed only by the strong scent of their cigarettes. This was routine, chain smoking for a good hour until one of them had the audacity to tilt their head up and look around, squinting at the realization that the smoke had obscured the view of the entire room. Then it was up to Henrietta to crack the window open for a while.

Winter was unkind and Pete couldn't tell his breath against the cold from the exhale of smoke from his menthol cigarette. Still, he flicked some ash off onto the girl's floor, tipping his head back, but not before offering Michael a sideways glance. Noting he seemed deep in thought, Peter shifted his attention to the ceiling and sighed deeply.

"You know," Michael's monotone voice sounded, hoarse and quiet against the music playing in the background, some post-punk record Henrietta had dug out from her garage and said they _had_ to listen to, "it's Firkle's birthday in like a week," the boy in question was absent from the meet-up, probably having fallen asleep watching _Boy Meets World_ reruns, "what should we get him?" no matter how much they prided themselves on rejecting every social norm, the gesture of a thoughtful gift was too pleasant to resist.

Henrietta drummed her chubby fingers against her leg in contemplation, "what the fuck do you give a teenage boy for his 15th birthday? I mean," she looked up, brows furrowed, "pizza? Tickets to a Peter Murphy concert that we'd have to sell a kidney to afford?"

"Condoms?" Michael joked, though one wouldn't be able to tell had they not known him. Pete breathed an airy chuckle and Henrietta rolled her eyes.

"Let's just buy him books, I don't think he'd care," Pete deadpanned, moving his hand to his mouth to take a drag from his cigarette before exhaling with a huff, "or make him something," the offer hung in the air and the room was dead silent save for the steady bass and the gentle crackle of the record player. Pete shut his eyes in concentration and wondered why his brain failed him whenever it was time to make a decision.

By the time midnight rolled around they narrowed the choices down to books and clothes. Michael joked dryly that they were reminding him of parents buying their child a Christmas present. Pete laughed a bit too hard and Henrietta gave him a knowing glance before ushering them outside.

"Don't crash your car," she yelled at Michael from the door, shivering at the cold air and waving a hand dismissively at the two silhouettes drifting away, obscured by the fog.

Having reached the vehicle, the two boys heard the door behind them slam shut and Pete dug his hands into his pockets as the taller boy did the same, searching for his car keys. Having finally dug them out, he shuffled over to the other side and listened to the satisfying sound of the locks clicking open. Peter slid inside and fiddled with the seatbelt, shaky hands clumsily handling the closure. He shut the door and listened to the deep bellow of the motor coming to life.

Noticing Michael hadn't bothered to turn the music on, Pete contemplated doing it himself, but resolved the dilemma by deciding he didn't care enough and shifted his gaze out the window, the blur of road and trees and the occasional house. It had practically become a tradition for them to drive around all the way to the outskirts of town prompted by the dispersion of their group when it was time to go home. The car passed by the church and stopped near the field of grass next to Stark's Pond before the motor shut off and Michael turned to face him.

"So," he began, sifting through his pockets before pulling out a box of cigarettes and tapping on the back, a habit Pete never quite understood. Michael had explained him to it before, but he hadn't bothered to listen, "wanna smoke until we can't see each other? Or does the freshly polluted air beckon?" he flicked his lighter on and brought it close to his face, the only light in the entire vehicle and it brought his beak-like nose and pale skin to attention before a puff of smoke replaced it, "your call," he breathed.

No matter how fond he'd been of sitting in a confined, stuffy place with the taller boy, Pete opted for oxygen, undoing his seatbelt and opening the door on his side, prompting Michael to do the same as he balanced the cigarette between his teeth. He slammed the door shut and took another drag, blowing out a string of rings that slowly disappeared into the cold, foggy air of midnight in South Park. Pete quickly dug his own cigarettes out of his front pocket and fiddled with an old BIC lighter he'd stolen from his dad. He sighed in content as the sticky, full feeling encompassed his lungs, holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling with a sigh and watching the smoke fade away.

The few subdued lights around them that appeared to be the only ones their small town could afford dimly lit the area surrounding them, Pete could see the lake all the way up to the horizon and the reflection of the crescent moon in the water. The damp grass under them gave with each step, weak and wet from the snow that had recently melted. Pete thought about silent moments like that, when he could feel his own breathing and finally hear himself think, away from the noise of everyday life.

He looked at his companion and then back at the distance, narrowing his eyes and leaning his head up, shifting his attention to the stars scattered across the dark sky, bundles and bundles of them. And the air around them smelled like freshly cut grass and cigarette smoke. He was sure that moment was significant somehow, the silence obstructed only by the soft sound of crickets in the background and the occasional sigh, he felt content standing in the damp grass and smelling the cold, winter air. It was a rare break from the pressure of existing and he dug his purple winklepickers into the ground beneath them before kicking away some stray grass that had gathered on the pointed tip.

Unsure of when or how, but sure it had happened, Pete noted Michael initiating conversation. It drifted between topics, hasty and unfinished on both their accounts, though several topics clung. Peter mentioned he wanted a _'Sic itur ad astra'_ tattoo, Michael mentioned it would look hardcore. The talking subsided and Pete mulled over his thoughts, though he took himself finishing the last cigarette in the small box as a prompt to get back into the car. The taller boy followed.

That night, Pete sat up in bed and sent Henrietta a hasty text, jabbing his fingers against the screen as he squinted at the brightness.

_'Let's just hit some stores tomorrow, there's likely something Firkle would like buried somewhere in South Park. Or we could rob a mausoleum.'_

The youngest boy's infatuation with the post mortem was no secret, having kept a hefty collection of animal bones he'd found god knows where. Perfectly preserved and cleaned. None of the quartet was allowed to touch him but himself, and he did it with such care that one would think they'd turn to dust. Pete played with the idea of just buying him a bottle of formaldehyde. He fell back onto the soft mattress that creaked at the movement. The string of sleep gleefully tugged at his conscious and he let his eyes close shut before drifting away.


	2. Chapter 2

_These are my friends. This is who they have been for always. _  
_These are my days. This is how they stay. Hey, hey. _  
_These are my friends. This is who they remain forever. _  
_This is how we stay. Hey, hey._

_"Yellow Cat (Slash) Red Cat" - Say Anything_

* * *

South Park, small as it may be, had a habit of being loud and active. This was not the case on Saturday mornings. Saturday mornings in South Park were silent and slow, and Pete woke up feeling more fatigued than usual, the sound of birds chirping outside his window accentuating the lack of any other sound. He was sure he was the only one awake. Sitting up, he slapped a hand over his face, muffling a groan as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stumbled out of bed.

Contemplating the time, he reached for his phone and cringed at the bright screen, noting the glaring numbers before whispering, "7 fucking AM," as he opened a text from Henrietta, a response to last night's impulse.

'Sounds good. I told Michael. He says you were thinking about getting a tattoo? We can do that tomorrow, too. Whatever, I'm going to bed.'

Henrietta Biggle's manner of typing was not concise in the slightest and Pete shook his head at her evident ability to disclose more than he cared to know. He slowly recalled his thought process the night before, though at that moment the thought of getting inked in South Park on a Saturday made his stomach churn. He sighed before texting back.

'Sure. The two of you decide who's driving and pick me up at 11.'

It seemed reasonable enough, he praised himself on his planning skills, before he felt the first hint of a need for nicotine press into the pit of his stomach, his foot tapped softly on the wood floor and he thought about holding out until after he had his morning coffee.

The resolution faltered and Pete found himself holding a cigarette between his teeth as he carried a hot coffee mug through his hallway, hissing as some spilled onto his hand, dripping onto the carpet. He reached a hand out to open the door of his room and frowned as he placed the cup down onto a miscellaneous textbook and took a quick drag before pinching the cigarette between his fingers and clumsily placing it in a nearby ashtray. He looked at his cluttered desk, all textbooks and sketches he'd never finish, before plopping down onto his computer chair and tipping his head back, the pressure forming in his sinuses left him with a floating sensation. Extending his arm out, he plucked the cigarette from his ashtray and took a deep drag, accentuating it by clearing his throat as he exhaled through his nose.

Through the window, the first rays of the morning sun peeked through, washing over the carpet, the settling dust visible against the light. Pete stood up promptly after finishing his coffee and squinted an eye at the sun as he looked himself over in the mirror, clad in a pair of gray and black pajama bottoms and a Bauhaus shirt.

"Nice," he whispered to himself, reaching a hand up to scratch at his side as he yawned.

Figuring it best he got dressed, Pete shuffled around his room, sifting through clothing merged into one pile of black. He studied each garment individually before settling for something that bore semblance of an outfit, sighing in exasperation as he realized it would take him ages to find the pentacle necklace he'd gotten at some thrift shop outside of town. However small and insignificant, he felt naked without it. Amulets came to mind, though he shook the thought away, eyes widening as he noticed the object in question. Shaky fingers fidgeted with the clasp before he huffed and straightened his posture. All in all, the process of getting ready took about twenty minutes and it was around 11AM by the time he was done.

Patience was not a virtue Pete had and he shifted in place as he waited for his phone to vibrate. Instead, he was startled by a loud honk from the street. He peeked out the window and, sure enough, Henrietta's mum's obnoxiously blue car was placed dead center on the street, the horn honking diligently. Pete imagined the discussion taking place inside the vehicle, idle chitchat about why he wasn't ready yet as he shuffled down the stairs and out the door, towards the car in question.

Upon noticing him, Henrietta relaxed significantly. Michael was on the passenger's side, leaving Pete to enjoy the roomy back, accentuated by the lack of the fourth member of their party. He leaned back and sighed a greeting, wrapping his arms around his torso for warmth as looked off into space. Space being Michael's unruly hair and Pete found himself staring before he averted his gaze to the street, trying not to pay any mind as to how peculiar his own actions felt. He felt the car's heating system warm up the inside of the vehicle and let his arms go slack, watching the snow fall outside.

Pete heard Michael shifting around in his seat and he peeked at what he was doing and, upon noticing the other tapping the back of a pack of cigarettes, he extended his arm out. No further elaboration was needed and the taller of the two placed a cigarette in his hand, nodding at the 'Thanks' that was mumbled as Pete leaned back and brought it to his lips.

He held the filter between his teeth as he dug around his pockets, pulling out a lighter and checking its functionality. Trying to align the tip with the flame, he narrowed his eyes before inhaling sharply. He tipped his head back and shut his eyes, enjoying the relief that encompassed his bones at that initial drag. He heard Henrietta turn the music up and he let Siouxsie Sioux's vocals feel for him.

The car slowed to a halt outside the large shopping centre, pulling Pete from his thoughts, he scanned the building up and down before exiting the vehicle, shivering as the cold air hit him. He dug his hands into his pockets and watched as Henrietta Biggle locked the doors and stuffed the key into the pocket of her winter jacket. He considered saying something about how shitty malls are and how they're run by corporate douche-bag conformists, but decided against it. The silence made him uncomfortable, however.

"Well," the tallest of the three droned, "I guess it's time to initiate the joys of consumerism," he let the butt of his cigarette drop to the ground, the snow putting it out, before continuing, "what do you wanna do first?"


	3. Chapter 3

_Hidden in the dashboard _  
_The unseen mechanized eye _  
_Under surveillance _  
_The road is full of cats eyes _  
_It's sick function to pry _  
_The spy in the cab _

_"Spy in the Cab" - Bauhaus_

* * *

"Let's look for Firkle's present," Henrietta chimed, "we can watch Pete get poked with a needle later," and the triad shuffled inside the building, cringing at the bright lights. Pete grimaced at the assault of pop music on his ears before looking up at one of the speakers incredulously.

"Can one die via speakers blaring this year's hits?" Pete asked, frowning at the repetitive tune emphasized by the acoustic of the large building, "or are the consequences just severe brain damage?"

"_Pete died from a severe aneurysm caused by the vocals of Ariana Grande_," Michael announced before observing the abundance of stores, "My IQ is dropping just by being here, the fuck are we supposed to go?"

After a few minutes of consultation as to which of the stores were worth visiting, they made their way up the escalator. Pete was quite wary of escalators and he held onto the railing with a strong grip, hearing the pads of his fingers squeak against the glass. He brought a hand up to move the hair from his eyes as he sighed in an attempt to conceal the uneasy feeling pooling in his stomach, he didn't want his friends to see him fidget. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Michael's gaze shift towards him for a split second. The menial gesture somehow seemed important. When they reached the next floor, Pete clumsily stepped off the conveyor system. In his mind, it felt like he was still moving and it took a bit of effort to walk without stumbling the first few steps.

"Let's get him a scarf," Henrietta Biggle suggested, cracking her knuckles before gesturing towards one of the many clothing stores, "maybe this year he won't catch the flu," and upon seeing no protest, she made her way towards the shop in question. Michael and Pete followed. Their group seemed ill fitting in contrast to the bright, lurid atmosphere of the mall itself. They each paced to separate sides of the store, observing the clothing racks and shelves. Occasionally, one would pull a garment out, look it over a couple of times and put it back in its previous spot. This went on for a good ten minutes before Michael gestured for the others to make their way over.

The three of them gathered around a small shelf, eyeing a stack of winter scarves placed conveniently next to a disorganized bundle of gloves. Near the bottom of the stack, they all could see a piece of black fabric sticking out and Pete reached a hand out to tug at it gently, sliding out the scarf while his other hand darted to hold the rest of them in place. Henrietta and Michael observed in silence.

"How about this," Pete held it up, "or are we too broke?"

The rectangular fabric was lined with purple tassels and Pete folded it over as his friends looked at the price tag on the side of the shelf. Henrietta sighed in relief as she dug out her wallet and sifted through it, grabbing a few crumpled bills before the three of them shuffled towards the cashier.

Pete swung the scarf onto the counter as the girl placed the money next to it, neither of them saying a word. Pete concealed a scoff at the look they received. The cashier scanned the article before stuffing it into a plastic bag with a pretentious logo on it and accepting the money.

The walk out of the store was relieving.

"Ready to get inked Pete?" the tallest of the three offered, leaning against a nearby railing, "or are you wary of the unsanitary conditions of South Park Mall?"

"Can we do it some other time?" he curled into himself slightly, hoping it wouldn't come off as if he was backing out, "I'm not really feeling the whole multiple puncture wounds thing right now."

"I'm gonna find a bathroom," Henrietta mumbled and, upon the nod of approval from her friends, she walked towards the other side of the building, her wedge boots tapping against the laminate floor.

The shorter boy walked over to where his friend was standing and sighed, staring off into the distance. The silence was heavy and he berated himself for not saying anything profound. _Fucking say something_, he thought, _anything_.

"Malls suck," he commented, "this freaking music is giving me a headache," and he reached a hand up to shift the hair from his face and rub one of his eyes.

"I feel like we should have done more," Michael responded, "like, I don't know, we made a huge deal out of it, kinda, I guess it was anticlimactic," he elaborated.

"We should have gotten him an exotic animal," the other joked, reveling at the pseudo-laugh he received from Michael.

"Hey," he began, "wanna watch a movie at my place tomorrow with Firkle and Henrietta?"

Pete mulled over it for a second before replying: "Sure. What movie?"

"Well we can either watch Beetlejuice for the thousandth time, or Heathers for the millionth."

"Or both," Pete contemplated, "when?"

"Around 10PM. Firkle has his shitty curfew, he has to be home by midnight," he explained, before hastily adding, "don't worry about the tattoo thing. It's whatever."

Pete nodded and mumbled a 'yeah' as he averted his gaze towards the ground.

The exchange was interrupted by their third companion returning from the restroom and she cracked her knuckles as she complained about how awful public bathrooms were. Pete tuned out between the groan of "They have speakers in there," and "The soap smells like potpourri," his mind drifting. By the time they got to the escalator, his friends' voices were a white noise and he shook any invasive thoughts away, trying to focus.

He barely noticed the walk to the car, though the sound of Henrietta slamming the door shut awoke him from his thoughts and drew his attention to the fact that Michael was sitting in the back with him. Henrietta announced something about the bag having to be in the passenger's seat and Michael rolled his eyes, digging out a cigarette and surrendering to his fate. The smoke engulfed the entire vehicle before Henrietta remembered to crack the window on her side open, a breeze rolling through the interior and making Pete shiver. He curled into himself and cursed under his breath.

The taller of the two raised his gaze to meet Pete's before holding out the burning cigarette. Pete found himself minding the cold less and less and he grabbed it before mumbling a thanks and bringing it to his lips. A cough wracked his body and he shut his eyes, the tightening in his chest making tears appear in the corner of his eyes. He clenched his fist and bumped it against his chest a few times as he breathed out profanity.

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," he breathed, clearing his throat a few times before passing the cigarette back. He rubbed at his eyes and sighed deeply, "lungs fucking suck."

Michael humored the statement with an understanding nod and Pete watched as he shifted his attention to the girl in the front seat, requesting she make use of the car stereo. The ride back seemed to go on forever and Pete found himself staring out the window and slowly tuning out again, though he perked up upon noticing the familiar buildings near his home. He thought about how, even though life sucked, it sucked even more from inside a blue sedan with floral print seats.

The car in question stopped outside his house and he opened the car door, stopping momentarily as he felt Michael's knee bump against his. It felt significant somehow. He shook the thought away and stepped out into the cold air, waving a goodbye to his friends. He walked to his front door and dug through his pockets in search of the house key. Upon fishing it out, he praised himself and made his way inside, kicking his shoes off and running up the stairs into his bedroom.


	4. Chapter 4

_We found you hiding, we found you lying_  
_Choking on the dirt and sand_  
_Your former glories and all the stories_  
_Dragged and washed with eager hands_

_"Cities in Dust" - Siouxsie and the Banshees_

* * *

The following day went by rather quickly and by 9PM, Pete found himself shuffling around his room, looking for some decent clothes to wear. He sighed at the realization that some of his favorite shirts were in the wash before settling on wearing a Joy Division T-shirt Michael had gotten him for his birthday a couple of years prior. He checked his phone as he slipped his shoes on and walked towards the door. The cold air bit into his skin and he adjusted his scarf and winter coat before hugging his torso as he trudged through the winter snow.

Michael's house seemed miles away and he sighed in relief as he saw the first silhouette of it in the distance, barely visible through the setting fog. When he got to the door, he resisted head butting the doorbell and instead he reached a hand out, cursing under his breath as his fingers had almost gone numb. He tried replicating the tune of _Nerves_, though he saw the lights turn on inside before he was finished.

The door opened to reveal Michael's gangly frame. He gave a greeting and invited Pete inside. The other shuffled through the door and let his arms fall slack at the warm temperature, a contrast to the snow and wind outside. He took off his shoes before hanging his coat and scarf on the hanger in the hallway. Michael had already gone upstairs, so he followed. The stairs creaked under his feet and he quickly made his way into the taller boy's bedroom.

Firkle and Michael were both sitting on the floor, the prior hugging his knees to his chest and playing with the lighter in his hand as the latter was hunched over a glass with three sticks of incense. Siouxsie and the Banshees played in the background and Pete sat down on the floor next to their younger companion. The atmosphere was comforting, Pete always found himself growing more relaxed when he was around his friends.

"Nice shirt, Pete," Michael joked, to which Pete gave a half-laugh. He stood up straight and placed the incense on the bedside table. The muffled ring of the doorbell resonated through the house and prompted Michael to mumble a, "be right back," as he walked downstairs to greet their last guest.

Pete tapped his fingers against the carpet as Firkle raised his gaze to meet his.

"What did you get me?" the smaller boy deadpanned, setting his lighter aside.

"It's a secret, _gosse_," he retaliated, amused at the frown Firkle gave at his response.

"Come on-" though he was cut off by the sound of the door opening. They both raised their gazes up to meet Henrietta's, who held a bottle of wine in her hand and plopped down on the floor beside them.

"Sorry, I had to see some shitty math tutor," she said, running her chubby fingers through her black dyed hair before giving Pete a knowing glance, "nice shirt," to which Pete felt his ears heat up as he gave her a half-hearted glare. Michael quickly put on The Heathers and joined them on the floor, plucking one of the bottles from Henrietta's hands and opening it.

"Is this vegan?" he asked, though he brought the bottle closer to his lips without waiting for an answer.

"Duh," Henrietta said, "pass it here when you're done."

The bottle survived a few circles between the hands of all four of them before it was almost empty, and the movie was almost finished. Michael swished the remaining liquid around before passing it to Pete, who fumbled with the cap before tipping the bottle back, resting his other hand behind himself so he wouldn't fall over. He stared at the empty bottle for a second before placing it on the floor. Firkle reached a hand out towards it and gave a weak sound of protest when Michael stopped him.

"Your curfew's in like 20 minutes," he said.

"I have to go, too, my aunt is over for a few days and so my mum wants us all to pretend we're well-adjusted," Henrietta announced, getting up and adjusting her dress before offering a hand to the smaller boy, who hesitantly took it.

"I should go, too," Pete said as he stumbled to his feet. Michael stood up as the credits rolled and escorted them all out. The cold air felt even worse, Pete swore, through the translucent film of alcohol clouding his mind. The trip home felt shorter, though, and Pete found himself face-planting the bed and letting out a sigh.

His room felt hot, though he couldn't be bothered to move.

He'd been laying there for god knows how long before the phone on his bed buzzed to life as the screen lit up and the familiar drone of _'Death and despair'_ commenced. Pete sighed and shifted to his side before staring at it for a second, the caller ID making him nervous, though he wasn't sure why. Hastily, he grabbed the phone and answered.

"Pete, it's Michael," and the boy shifted onto his back, wondering why Michael always felt the need to clarify it was him, "I can't sleep."

Words felt labored and Pete berated himself over not knowing what to say, barely managing a: "Yeah?" and praying silently Michael would just keep talking. His mouth felt numb from the alcohol, the taste of wine clung to the back of his throat.

"Yeah," he repeated, "there's nothing on TV and I spent the last 30 minutes reading Buddhist literature. If I read another paragraph about reincarnation through a metaphor about mountains I'll find a way to kill myself via paperback."

"Wild night, huh?" Pete breathed, "do you at least feel a connection with the universe?" and he twirled a stray strand of hair between his fingers.

"Not really," he could hear Michael shifting as he spoke, "I feel a deeper connection with the universe when I listen to a Joy Division record."

Pete let out a breathy chuckle before speaking: "I'm pretty sure my company doesn't hold up to that of the late Ian Curtis."

"I think you surpass the expectations," Pete could hear Michael smiling and he shut his eyes and sighed, "stay up with me," it wasn't really a question so Pete didn't provide an answer. Still, he could hear Michael's tone, he didn't sound like himself.

"What's up?" he asked, sparing a glance at the laptop on his desk as he considered playing some music. He wasn't even sure if Michael would hear it. Still, he sat up and put on The Cure as Michael spoke.

"I don't know, it's just- is that music?" he cut himself off and Pete straightened his posture.

"Yeah, sorry. I can still hear you," and he ran a hand through his hair before leaning back again.

"Whatever. Anyway, I've just been thinking. About us," and Pete raised an eyebrow, "and how time passes and shit. I mean, I remember when we were 15 and Firkle was 11. And we'd sneak out to go to gigs and..."

"We still do that," Pete tried to assure him, "we drove to Denver at 2AM last week."

"Yeah, I guess. I don't know, birthdays always make me feel weird, like we're getting old. I mean, we're 18, but still," and Pete nodded before realizing Michael couldn't see him.

"That's okay," Pete's chest felt tight, he felt his heartbeat accelerate whenever Michael spoke. He changed the song before continuing, "I mean, I get it," and he tipped his head back, "just don't think about it too much," he let the bass line feel for him.

"Can you turn that up?" Michael asked. Pete complied and he lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Neither of them spoke, and soon Pete felt the familiar haze of sleepiness overwhelm him. Thoughts of hanging up were suppressed by how heavy his eyelids felt. Michael's voice brought him back to a state of consciousness, "I think I'm going to try and sleep," his voice was raspy and barely audible.

"Oh, okay. Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," and he hung up.

Just like that, Pete was back to being alone. Alone with his thoughts, free to mull over them for as long as he wished. He sighed and placed his phone on the nightstand before turning around and pulling a blanket over himself, shielding himself from having to think. The exchange between Michael and himself was still on his mind, but his bones felt heavy and sleep seemed like a good idea.


	5. Chapter 5

_I can't scream, _  
_ No, I can't scream for you_  
_ Mother and father, you're wrestling me_  
_ And boys like me, we like violence under pressure_

_"Lux" - Ramesh_

* * *

Pete awoke the next day, plagued by a headache and limbs too heavy to move. He sighed and clasped a hand over his eyes, rubbing off the remains of yesterday's makeup before stumbling to his feet and walking to his bathroom. The mirror was the enemy. He stared himself down, trying to make sense of his features in a sleepy daze and he raised an eyebrow at a trail of eyeliner that ran down his cheek and ended at his jaw-line. He stepped into the shower and tried his best to will himself to drown.

The too-warm water made him hiss and he shut his eyes tightly as he shampooed his hair, the water slightly tinting with red as a consequence of him having dyed his hair a few days prior. Pete was a fan of long, hot showers that he could drown all his self-pity in. It never worked, but it didn't hurt to dream. He stepped out and wrapped one towel around his waist before using another to dry his hair. The fog on the mirror relieved him from having to stare at his reflection.

When he entered his room, he noticed his phone's screen light up and he reached for it, shivering as the cold air hit his wet skin. He cursed under his breath and opened the text message.

_'Come over in an hour?'_

It was from Michael. He considered his reply as he sighed, before finding his interest piqued at the idea, though he wasn't sure why. Fingers jabbed clumsily against the keys as he wrote a quick reply, signifying he'd be there. He heard thunder roll outside and peeked outside, frowning as the rain started to fall. The ground would be slippery by the time he left, no doubt. Liberally, he made himself a cup of coffee after getting dressed and curled into himself as he held the mug with two hands. Upon finishing it, he stood up and stuffed his phone into his front pocket before grabbing his keys and walking down the stairs. He slipped his shoes and coat on and walked outside, trying not to slip.

The walk to Michael's house was agonizing, emphasized by the slow steps he took in an attempt not to fall. He pulled his hood over his head and dug his hands into his pockets, biting his lip at the cold air. By the time he got there, his hair was completely wet and he pressed on the doorbell and shifted in place, waiting.

Michael opened the door and quickly ushered Pete inside, instructing him to take his shoes off and hurry upstairs. He walked into Michael's room, the warm air a stark contrast to the low temperature outside. He cracked his knuckles and sat on the bed, waiting for the taller boy to come in. When he did, Pete dragged his gaze up from Michael's grey socks, up his body to the final curl atop his head. It felt like he'd never actually gotten a good look at his friend before. He was all dark fabric wrapped snug around sharp angles, even his smudged eyeliner looked precise. He took a seat next to the other and sighed. Pete slowly shifted his gaze to meet his eyes, dark and sunken and so focused.

"Pete," Michael began, his low drone making the hairs on the back of Pete's neck stand up, "I want _you_," he emphasized as Pete raised an eyebrow, "to cut my hair," and finally, he pointed his index finger at the mane in question. Noticing the shorter boy's hesitation, he shifted in his seat before announcing, "I'll take you to get your tattoo tomorrow."

"Alright."

"Wait, really?"

"Sure," he breathed, cracking his knuckles.

"Okay, just," Michael said, "let me get you some scissors and set some newspaper down," he stood up, "wait right here," and disappeared out the door, leaving Pete to sit alone and further inspect his surroundings.

He noted the mess of books scattered across a desk that sat on the other side of the room, the way the corners were chipped with age. Averting his gaze, Pete saw a pile of black fabric on the floor, presumably laundry that Michael hadn't gotten to putting in the hamper. He felt privileged in that he was exposed to a messier state of being, and when Michael walked back in, he quickly shook the thoughts away.

In his hands, the tall boy held a stack of newspapers and a pair of scissors, the latter of which rather intimidated Pete. Having never cut anyone's hair before except his own, he felt the fear of failure creep up in the back of his mind. He didn't notice he'd been staring until Michael cleared his throat, leaving the other to raise his eyebrows and look up. The scissors were now directly in front of his face, and he quickly grabbed them and stood up as Michael spread sheets of the newspaper on the floor. He placed the chair that stood near his desk in the middle before turning a lamp on and sitting down. Pete stepped forward and stood above Michael's frame as the other tipped his head back.

The light was comfortably dulled and emphasized the other boy's features, his beak-like nose and sunken eyes, the slight contour of his cheekbones. Hesitantly, he ran a hand through the taller boy's hair, noticing the way the dense strands curled as he ran his fingers through them. He lifted the scissors and began cutting away, tentative and shaky. The sound of snipping was all that could be heard, save for his and Michael's breathing and the occasional sound of the house settling. He watched as strands of hair fell down and pooled at his feet, once in a while opting to run his hands through the taller boy's hair. Reaching across to the desk, he placed the scissors down and went back to brushing the thick curls with his fingers.

Perhaps it was purely self-indulgent, he thought, the pads of his fingers settling against the roots. Michael arched a brow at this, though he didn't move, allowing Pete to gently press against his scalp. Silence engulfed the room and he noticed Michael's eyes were closed. He dragged his hands along to the back of his head, right above his neck and rubbed gently before moving back up. Squinting a bit, he swiped his finger under Michael's eye gently, fixing an out of place smudge from his eyeliner. The skin under the boy's eyes was thin and dark, the consequence of an irregular sleeping schedule, though it worked in his favor.

Dark circles were totally goth, Pete thought to himself, brushing Michael's hair through with his fingers one last time and cracking his knuckles to signify he was done. The taller of the two slowly opened his eyes and mouthed his thanks, the silence was deafening.

"Do you wanna see it?" Pete Grey always felt awkward speaking, like his phrasing was off or he stammered too much. This was no exception and he tentatively watched Michael register the question.

"Not really. I trust you," and with that he shifted his posture and reached inside his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and tapping the back before pulling one out.

Pete sat down cross-legged on the bed, his eyes set on Michael's hands as his mind wandered. The other, however, noticed his staring and arched a brow before offering the cigarette in his hand. Blinking, Pete eyed the object before slowly reaching a hand out and taking it. The first drag after a few hours was always his favorite and he closed his eyes as he felt the gentle ache in the back of his throat. For that split second, it felt like he was floating. He opened his eyes and passed it back to Michael.

There was something intimate about the way their knuckles brushed against each other, or maybe he was reading too deep into things. The entire ordeal somehow felt significant, though Pete always felt his worst while thinking. The soft light of the lamp flickered as he tried to drive the thoughts away.


	6. Chapter 6

_Yeah, everyone I know is losing their minds_  
_Yeah, but everyone I know has a really good time_  
_Drilling holes in my head_  
_Ahh, you will never go blind_  
_I will always be the outlaw for your love_

_"Trepanation Party" - Voxtrot_

* * *

Michael slowly leaned across to the computer on the desk in his room and Pete listened to the tapping of his fingers against the keyboard before recognizing the familiar initial percussion of _Dark Entries_. Music was the signal that no words would be uttered for the rest of the evening, or at least until further notice. Michael appeared to be deep in thought and the shorter of the two quirked a brow, signifying his curiosity, though the other did little to elaborate. Instead, Pete watched as he tipped his head back and took another drag, the smoke first pooling around his features before slowly ascending towards the ceiling. The room was stuffy, though opening a window wasn't an option. Pete felt small and strange, like if he curled into himself enough, he could disappear completely. He became hyperaware of his features and tried his best not to appear unusual, though it did sort of come with the territory. His breathing felt forced.

"So... tomorrow, huh?" he heard Michael say, though it was barely above a whisper. He didn't wait for an answer before continuing, "that's Firkle's birthday. We'll get this done in the morning and then we can do whatever, or just hang out here. Henrietta says to be at her place at 7," the implied question hung in the air and Pete was slightly dazed by the airy nature of the tall boy's voice, and he didn't answer straight away.

"Uh," he said as he thought about the other's lungs pushing out air in the form of words, though he blinked the thoughts away, "that sounds good, yeah," the sounds leaving his mouth were much more strained, the syllables scraping his throat like tiny pins. He quickly dug his phone out of his pocket and looked at the time, frowning, "I think I have to go. It's pretty late."

Michael didn't respond, though he opened his eyes and stood up instead. He stretched, a mess of gangly limbs that clothes hung off of. Michael always managed to look effortlessly messy. Pete slowly got up as well, his legs feeling slightly untrustworthy. Through a fog, he slid down Michael's stairs along with him, the wood creaking once again at their weight. They stood at Michael's front door and Pete saw his arm move before feeling a warmth on his hand.

Oh.

The taller boy's spindly digits wrapped snug around his and Pete was brought to a silent understanding of the universe. He memorized the cold pads of Michael's fingers and the way they gently pressed against his skin. More so, he tried to the best of his abilities to prevent time from moving as he thought about how gentle Michael's grip was, how strange it felt to be touching him like this. It was hard to imagine someone like that actually had a physical plane, Michael's skin always seemed like some unreachable horizon. But there it was, pressed gingerly against his own as snow fell around them. All too soon, the older boy mumbled a goodnight and they let go. When Michael shut the door, Pete turned on his heel and quickly started walking, trying hard to shove any invasive thoughts away.

He held his coat in his arms, not bothering to put it on. His entire body felt feverish, the tips of his ears heating up and his fingers feeling hot, the same fingertips that, just moments ago, were held gently in the grip of his taller companion's bony hand. The cold did very little to alleviate the symptoms and Pete thought he might collapse into the snow and merge with the ground, either as a result of the fever or out of sheer embarrassment. Instead, he walked faster until he was at his own front door. His hands shook as he fiddled with his keys, dropping them before bending down to pick them up again. After a small struggle, he managed to get inside and immediately bolted to his room. He kicked his boots off and haphazardly tossed his coat on his bed. It was too hot inside.

A pressure built in his sinuses and he felt the need to lay down. Any and all rational thought was gone as he lifted his arm up and stared incredulously at his hand. What a terrible thing, he thought, that this caught him so off guard. He wondered how ridiculous he must have looked, shaky and silent. His entire mind was buried in self doubt as he berated himself over the way he pronounced his 'goodnight'. Thoughts of the following day sprung up, he thought of the harsh jab of the tattoo gun into the skin of his arm. He rubbed it gently, wondering if doing so would leave Michael's fingerprints all across the skin. He also wondered if people left parts of themselves on other people when they touched them, like tiny footprints. His and Michael's recent encounter only seemed more important.

Sleep came unexpectedly, flooding his brain with a gentle wave before engulfing him completely. In the same breath, he felt himself wake up even more exhausted. The ceiling above him mocked his own weakness and the sun outside further made him feel like he was being very irrational. _Look_, it almost said, _look, Pete. Everyone else is up, just look at yourself._

When he did get up, he went through his morning routine with anxiety in his veins as he awaited Michael's text messages or phone calls. Soon enough, he heard Michael's car pull up in the street and he felt a childish glee overtake him. He stumbled outside into the cold air once again and slid inside the vehicle, reveling in the fact that the other had been courteous enough to turn the heating on. When they took off, no words were spoken.

Pete slid his finger along the condensation that had formed on the window, leaving a stripe signified by a soft squeak. He drew a frowny face with his index finger and noticed Michael sparing him a glance. He felt very tiny and insecure at the attention.

"Can you draw another one?," he requested, and Pete's finger followed, accentuated with another squeak, "there, now we can be sad together," the comment made a warmth spread in his chest. It seemed somewhat ideal, being sad together. He thought about the idea of soul mates and how he didn't really subscribe to finding someone to share all your happiness with, but the idea of having someone to be sad with seemed wonderful.

"This seems intimate," Pete said, adding hair to the little faces he'd drawn with shaky hands, trying not to ruin it. He felt at ease when he was doodling, even on glass, it made speaking easier. He thought about how that was a strange trait to have, though he shook the thought away.

"Well, I mean" the shorter boy turned around at the comment, his eyes darting to Michael's, which were focused on the road ahead. He looked intimidating like that and he cleared his throat before continuing, "do you mind it?"

"Not particularly," Pete turned around fully to face the front and wrapped his arms snug around his torso, hoping to slowly sink into the cushioning of the seat, "you look really cool like that."

"Yeah?" he offered a quick glance at the other.

"Yeah. Like there's a chance someone is dead in the trunk of this car and we've just held up a convenience store."

"That is pretty cool. Though I prefer diners. Speaking of," the vehicle slowed to a halt in front of a small, seemingly vacant parlor, "we can grab some food after this if you're into the whole nutrition thing."

"Food sounds alright," he undid his seatbelt and nervously stumbled outside. The snow stuck to his eyelashes and he blinked incessantly for a good two seconds. In front of them stood the small, yet somewhat intimidating tattoo shop. Pete inhaled sharply as Michael locked the car doors.


	7. Chapter 7

_I sat in the pouring rain_  
_Wishing that you had followed_  
_I sat facing the blowing winds_  
_Wishing I wasn't hollow_

_"The Boy with the Sun in his Eyes" - Rabbit Junk_

* * *

The door of the building seemed terrifying, though it was rather small with a crudely done sign that read _'OPEN'_ in somewhat clumsy handwriting. Pete pushed the door open and was greeted by the quiet ring of the bell above the door, as well as the drone of lo-fi music. The parlor was tiny at best, offering very little room to move around, though it evidently got the job done. It was the only tattoo shop in South Park save for the one in the mall, and proved to be vacant save for a stocky gentleman sitting behind a gray counter. He sported a beard and a sleeve of tattoos across his right arm, and he greeted the two boys with as much enthusiasm as he could muster as Michael took Pete's jacket. Pete was far from intimidated by this small, stubby creature, though anxiety pooled in the pit of his stomach at the thought of getting stabbed in the arm by him.

They discussed the nature of their arrangement and the man instructed them to take a seat on a worn bench as he sketched. Pete wondered how long such a simple task could take, though his interest was instead piqued by Michael's knee gingerly pressing against his own. He tried to conceal the satisfaction the contact granted him, though he found himself feeling like an open book in front of the taller boy. He felt tiny and inferior as he looked at the ground and picked at his nail polish. The ceiling fan above them spun in an agonizingly slow fashion, the dense air of the room giving Pete slight respiratory troubles. He let his gaze quickly fall to Michael, who was looking up at the ceiling.

"Pete," Michael said, the boy in question feeling a heat erupt under his skin at the sound of his name. He could tell the older of the two was trying to be quiet, though it just made his voice sound even more sickly and hoarse, "what do you wanna eat when we're done here? If you survive the terror of a tattoo gun."

He knew Michael was joking, though he couldn't help the goose-bumps spreading across his arms at the thought. He felt he was being rather childish about the whole ordeal, and tried to keep a stern face before speaking: "I suppose we could go to the Village Inn and eat their gross pancakes," he could tell Michael was contemplating the idea.

The local Village Inn specialized in overly processed breakfast foods and stale coffee, so Pete understood Michael's hesitation. However, it was fairly nearby and neither of them were that passionate about pancakes in the first place, especially not enough to be offended by their desecration. After a moment of pondering, the taller boy replied affirmatively.

In an instant, the older gentleman walked back over to them and immediately rolled up the sleeve of Pete's shirt in a tactless manner. He applied a paper-like sheet and pressed it against the skin of his arm before peeling it off.

"Does that look alright?" the man asked, pulling out the instrument of Pete's undoing.

"Uh, yeah, that works," he answered before gritting his teeth and trying to compose himself. He was instructed to a chair that was in slightly better shape than the bench he previously inhabited. It felt a lot like going to the doctor's, though a physical examination was a lot less painful.

"This could probably hurt," was all the warning he received before the gun pressed against his skin. It felt like getting hundreds of booster shots in one second and he dug his nails into the palm of his hand, watching his knuckles turn white as he tried to switch the focus to anything but the slightly numbing pain in his arm.

His gaze darted up to meet Michael's, whose expression read mild concern, though his posture had remained the same. At one point, time seemed to slow down and Pete was certain he had entered a new dimension of being, wherein his entire body existed on a plane separate to that of his mind. It felt comforting, like the sound of being underwater. He imagined an ocean slowly carrying him, ignoring the stinging on his skin. The salt water cleaned the newly inflicted wounds and the hot summer sun quelled all his pain. The sea seemed to go on forever, all the way to the horizon, and his body was weightless. Occasionally, he was brought back to reality by the tattoo artist stopping his ministrations to wipe away any stains with a wet rag.

When the man was done, he gave the piece one last look before standing up and allowing Pete to slowly return to the real world. The lights seemed terribly bright and he tentatively pressed the pads of his fingers against his arm.

"It might start peeling a bit," the man said, "just don't scratch it and you'll be fine," and he proceeded to charge them while exchanging idle conversation that neither Pete nor Michael seemed too keen on indulging in. The taller of the two handed the other his jacket before pulling out his wallet.

Pete was about to protest, but his voice was trapped in his throat and all he managed was an _'um'_ before he sighed in defeat. When they exited, the cold air swallowed Pete's body in its sharp embrace as they treaded towards the car. It had begun snowing with great intensity in the time they spent inside, and Michael mumbled obscenities as he searched for his car keys.

The vehicle was chilly at best and the older boy immediately turned on the heating. Pete buckled his seatbelt and hugged his torso in a desperate attempt at finding warmth.

"So," Michael said, "Village Inn?" and he seemed sated with the nod Pete gave.

He ignited the engine and Pete couldn't see the road ahead. White engulfed every inch of the world around them, he was certain. It was somewhat overwhelming and he tipped his head back, observing the ceiling of the car instead. By the time they reached their destination, Pete had memorized every crevice of Michael's car and he was somewhat relieved to be able to walk out, as his body had begun to feel incredibly warm.

The Village Inn was barren save for one or two people, and the two boys enjoyed the pleasures of walking to a booth and ordering a small stack of pancakes from a woman who looked like she had recently died. When their food arrived, Pete poked at it with his fork nervously.

"You know," Michael said, "this makes you totally hardcore. Not the pancakes," he quickly corrected himself, "the, uh," and pointed towards Pete's arm.

"Yeah? It feels like I had my arm chopped off."

"That would have been even more hardcore," Michael's voice seemed to get softer, or at least quieter, "though I suppose anything you do is pretty hardcore in and of itself," the comment made Pete reach a hand up to cover his mouth in an attempt to conceal a smile. Smiling felt unnatural to him, though he wasn't sure why. Perhaps he was just insecure about how he looked.

He imagined, for a second, that nothing existed besides their little booth. No past or future, no home, no birthdays and certainly no ache in his arm. The thought was comforting and he removed the hand from his face, instead placing it on the table where Michael reached out and ran a finger across the veins on the back of his hand. The silence was broken by Pete's ringtone, and his eyes widened before he pulled his phone out and looked at the caller ID.


	8. Chapter 8

_But then I see you running with a brilliant stare_  
_ You got a fighters lines you got a lion's share_  
_ Of the touch and grow but listen I don't care_  
_ Never pictured you, I never placed you there_

_"New Love" - Voxtrot_

* * *

"Hello?" Pete droned, holding the phone up to his ear and staring ahead blankly. The interruption seemed impeccably rude to him, though he was certain the person on the other side had no idea of the intimacy he was currently occupied with.

"Pete," Henrietta's voice oozed from the other side, "Can you guys come to my house? We need to set up food and drinks and, and-" she stammered before cutting herself off and sighing, "get some alcohol and OJ on your way over," she said, trying to calm herself.

"Fine," was all Pete said as he contemplated a more courteous reply, "we'll be there soon."

He placed the phone down on the table and let his eyes meet Michael's, who raised an eyebrow as a prompt for the shorter boy to elaborate. Pete was engulfed by feelings of guilt at having ruined the atmosphere of their previous moment, and he cleared his throat softly.

"Henrietta says she wants us to pick up drinks and then go to her house," he said, insecure about his voice, "so I guess we have to go."

"Lame," was all Michael managed, before wrapping his spindly digits around Pete's hand and squeezing gently, "you know we're not leaving yet."

"Yeah," he said, content with their small 'forever' in which he could feel safe enough to exhale softly. There was a feeling of uncertainty looming in the back of his mind that he tried his best to suppress. He felt Michael rhythmically tap his index finger against the back of his hand and looked up, "what are you doing?"

"I'm professing my infinite infatuation towards you to the tune of _She's in Parties_," he answered, reaching a hand out to move a stray curl from his face, "I don't know how well it translates," he added, though he showed no sign of stopping.

"Oh," he whispered, curling into himself a bit as another hint of a smile began to tug at his lips. He thought of how that was optimal background music to the affections he directed towards the other boy, and then he thought of the red blossoming across his skin at the notion. He pressed his fingertips to his own cheek, "I think you're alright. We should compile a soundtrack."

"We should also go," Michael said, giving Pete's hand a gentle squeeze before letting go completely, leaving him feeling slightly colder than he did moments ago. He fished out half of the bill, leaving the shorter boy to get the rest. The bell above the door rang to signify their disappearance.

Once again, they paced through the snow and the wind into Michael's car before starting their journey through infinite white, only stopping outside a convenience store where Pete picked up a few bottles of vodka and orange juice. He ran back into the car and handed Michael a Mars bar.

"What?" he asked, though he extended an open hand.

"It's for you, you look anemic," Pete placed the incriminating chocolate bar in his palm.

"Oh my god," the taller boy exhaled as he placed the offensive item in the pocket of his coat. The road ahead seemed to protest to any and all movement as the way to Henrietta's house was all too long. They made it to the door, equipped with plastic bags and general disdain. Henrietta Biggle's rotund self opened the door, quickly ushering them inside and taking the bags from their hands.

"Where have you guys-?" she began, stopping when she saw Pete press his fingers against the still tender skin of his arm, "oh. I thought we were gonna go together," her voice was low and serious, leaving Pete with a slight feeling of guilt.

"Sorry," was all he said.

"No worries. Oh, I wrapped Firkle's present, you guys can look at it and see if you like it. It's in the living room," the girl pointed towards the open door of the room in question before taking the glass and plastic bottles out of the bags and struggling to carry them to the kitchen as Pete hesitantly waltzed over to the living room, letting his eyes fall to what was obviously the birthday present. It sat on a gratingly blue couch, wrapped snug in gray and black paper with a blank card stuck to it.

"Oh, guys," he heard Henrietta yell from the kitchen, "just write 'Happy birthday Firkle' on that card and sign your names on it. Sign mine as well, I don't exactly trust my penmanship. I'll make you some coffee."

Pete observed as Michael walked over to him, sensitized to the brush of their arms against each other as he grabbed a pen off the coffee table next to the couch and hunched over the small parcel, signing their names and adding an uncharacteristic smiley face. Pete offered a look of approval when their gazes met and the taller boy stood up straight.

They both took a seat on the couch, Pete reveled in the small break as he tried to imprint the feeling of the cushion sinking with the taller boy's weight, the feeling of their limbs pressing against each other in a manner that was barely noticeable. It resonated in his bones, comfort was found when Michael dragged a hand along his knee, the pads of his fingers pressing into the younger boy's skin gently. Shuffling was heard from the kitchen, indicative of the coffee Henrietta was making being nearly done, and Michael rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand as he exhaled.

Henrietta walked back into the room holding two coffee mugs. She placed them gingerly on the coffee table in front of them, one in front of Pete and the other in front of Michael, before giving the two boys a suspicious glance.

"What are you doing?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. Pete's chest filled up with shame at the question, he wondered if they really were doing something weird.

"Never mind," Henrietta said, not bothering to wait for an answer, "I'll be right back. Firkle's going to show up any minute and I invited some other people from the scene, just be sure to be decent when they arrive," and she gave a smile and shuffled out of the room once again.

"I think I should clarify," the taller boy began, "the nature of our relationship does not need to go any further if that's something you don't want. However, my inner narcissist tells me you're fine with this. "

The other boy sunk into the cushion of the couch, curling into himself slightly before answering: "This is fine," he said, "more than this would be fine, too," his voice felt strange in his ears, like he didn't quite inhabit his body. It felt intimate sitting like they were, in such close proximity, speaking in such quiet voices. He was certain they would evolve into a superior form of communication, one that required no sound or motion.

The doorbell rang and Pete immediately straightened his posture as Michael stood up. He followed suite, watching the only female of their group quickly walk towards the door and open it. About five people wearing enough hairspray to be a fire hazard walked into the house. She greeted everyone before walking back to the kitchen and coming out with a big trey of generally unhealthy looking snack food.

More people poured in, arriving in a couple of groups of four or five and soon enough, the living room was fairly full. The only person that hadn't showed up yet was Firkle. The final ring of the doorbell indicated his arrival, and Henrietta Biggle quickly hushed everyone before tiptoeing to the door. During the small period of silence, Michael managed to shoo away a couple of people standing around the couch and take a seat next to Pete. The closeness still felt comforting.

The door creaked open and a chorus of 'happy birthday' and 'surprise' filled the room as Firkle mouthed a silent 'holy shit'. The entire house resonated with laughter, yelling and cheering, amplified greatly when the first bottle of alcohol was opened. Pete watched as Michael rolled his eyes at the blatant display of the unsavory parts of the human condition.

Soon enough, they viewed the culmination of terror. It started off barely noticeable, but the initial tone evolved into the well-known noise that made Pete think of old factories and drug-filled clubs. Industrial music.

"Oh my god," Michael groaned, frustration evident in his voice as he seemed to curse every god that forced him to agree to such an unpleasant arrangement.

"This isn't even post-punk, who invited these people?" the other said, sighing, "though I don't think even Ian Curtis could save this."

"Destroy them. _Oh_," Michael began, fishing his phone out of his pocket before skimming the text message he had received, "some guy I apparently know is texting me. He wants me to play for his band while calling me a sellout for still being with you guys. I don't think I'm going to be very nice about my refusal," he stopped for a second, "I'm sort of relying on him eventually forgetting who I am," he clarified, voice barely audible against the sound of music and the voices of the many people present.

Pete watched Michael's skinny digits prod against the screen for less than a minute before he stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Large groups of people seemed suffocating, Pete felt strange and out of place, like he would collapse under the pressure of so many humans in his presence. It was an uncomfortable experience, his bones felt weak and his breathing uneven.

"Hopefully he will forget you ever existed," Pete said, hesitantly letting his hand find Michael's and trailing his index finger along the cold skin. The older of the two raised a brow at this before threading their fingers together, a feeling of safety engulfing Pete as he thought about how Michael's hands were always so cold, "I need to step outside, this crowd is making me dizzy," and he ran a hand through his dyed hair and blinked, trying to fathom his surroundings.


	9. Chapter 9

_You've got this one last change to burn me, turn me down_  
_ If not I've got these last 12 bucks to spend on you_  
_ You can take me anywhere your sick mind wants to_  
_ I'll use your south to fuel me, using you._

_"The Writhing South" - Say Anything_

* * *

When they made it out to the front porch, Pete inhaled sharply the brisk winter air. His lungs felt like they couldn't expand any further and he managed to put his jacket on before leaning against the wall. It felt relieving to be away from people for at least a second, though he hadn't been inside for very long. The moon and stars felt for him and he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

He had a terrible habit of smoking menthols and he squeezed the filter softly, reveling in the quiet pop it gave before putting it between his teeth and looking for a lighter. Rather, Michael's hands were quickly very close to his face as he had beaten Pete to it, his own black lighter spitting out a tiny flame that was impeccably close to Pete's hair and eyes. Still, he didn't squirm away, instead promptly inhaling when the flame lit the end of his cigarette. His lungs felt sated for at least a moment and the soft burn in the back of his throat reminded him of the fluid coursing through his body.

"Thanks," he managed, voice rough and throat slightly sore as smoking seemed not to mix well with dry air, "can we," he began, stopping for a second to gather his messy thoughts, "go somewhere? Like, can we not be here right now? I mean, I know we're outside but... I can still hear their horrific voices."

"We can drive around, if you want," Michael offered. Pete gave a silent nod and they made their way towards Michael's car, careful not to slam the doors and hoping to escape without Henrietta noticing their absence. The inside of the car was just as cold, and before he started the engine, Michael plucked the cigarette from between Pete's fingers and took a drag and passed it back. Pete held the object with great care and leaned back in his seat as Michael turned the key, the engine coming to life.

The roads were barren, amplified by the white covering everything. Pete thought about how anything could be under the thick layer of snow, from a dead squirrel to a dead body to a dead alien. He wondered about how easy it was to conceal things, how reality seemed to bend according to only the things they knew and how new information could change the perception of it greatly. He wondered if anything existed outside of his interpretation of it.

Shifting his gaze over to the boy sitting next to him, he exhaled softly as his thoughts drifted towards how unlikely it seemed for him to have met a creature that resembled the gods. Michael seemed to have descended from a higher plane only to take pity on Peter's rotten, sickly soul. His form was all sharp angles and black. Everything was black and Pete tried to imagine Michael in anything else. The image felt wrong and sinful so he shoved it aside.

"Pete," the boy next to him said, "what are you thinking about?"

"I'm imagining you in a green turtleneck, though I believe such a notion is more obscene than imagining you in nothing at all," though, suddenly, he felt insecure at his words and looked away, "I say terrible things around you, it seems."

"I would indulge you," the taller boy clarified, stopping for a moment before speaking, "do you ever wonder if there's anything more? To this, I mean," though he made no effort to gesture, Pete felt he understood. Still, he let Michael continue, "everything around us. It all seems so small."

"I guess," Pete answered, voice strained and quiet, "there's a lot beyond this."

"I feel like this town is surrounded by an invisible force field, no one gets in and no one gets out," he exhaled, reaching his right hand out. Pete handed him the cigarette he held between his index and middle finger. Michael took a shallow drag and exhaled softly, "I guess that's the hardest part, though; getting out."

"We'll make it out one day, I'm certain," he felt comfortable existing in the small vehicle with the taller boy, even if it was in a wasteland like South Park, "or die trying."

The conversation died down and they took to staring at the road ahead, Pete looking to his right at the snow that cascaded down in big flakes. It felt warm and cozy in the car and he felt like a character in a very backwards version of a Christmas movie. He imagined Michael's breathing had stopped for a second, as if he was bracing himself to say something, because the next sound he heard was his voice.

"Can we go to your house?" the inquiry left Pete biting his lip nervously, "I don't think I want to go home tonight, and the only other option is going back to the party," anything was better than the alternative, he concluded.

"Yeah," Pete exhaled, "just as a warning, my room is kind of horrible."

They switched routes and soon, the car stopped on the driveway in front of Peter Grey's home. They exited the vehicle and Pete whispered a 'shh' before quietly guiding Michael inside and, once they'd gotten their shoes and coats off, over to his room. The door creaked shut and Pete sat down on his old, but functional bed. Michael was about to take a seat on a chair opposite him, but Pete quickly extended both arms, signaling for him to come closer. Instead, Michael dragged the chair over to where Pete was sitting, and took a seat, their forms inches away from each other and their knees pressed against one another. Pete tentatively threaded his fingers in the older boy's hair, gently brushing it and imagining the feeling of a sheep's wool. He was certain nothing could compare to Michael's hair, it seemed like the softest thing he'd touched in the universe.

"This isn't the _'more'_ I had in mind, I meant it in the philosophical sense but," Michael began, letting his voice fall to a gentle exhale, "fuck Plato," he breathed, their faces now close enough for their noses to gingerly brush against each other.

Pete inhaled sharply as he let his hands drift down to the other's neck, and he gently pulled him closer, their mouths pressing together in a display of endless admiration. They nervously moved against each other, Michael's hand finding Pete's side and resting there, the pads of his fingers digging into the cloth covered skin, making Pete exhale against his lips. He was certain he could hear his heartbeat in his ears by now, forgetting all about his messy room, the party, Firkle, nothing existed beyond the gentle existence of the taller boy pressed against his own jagged presence.

When it ended, Pete felt incredibly shy and let himself press his cold fingers against his cheek, certain he was blushing terribly. He couldn't dare look at Michael, who instead took to grabbing hold of Pete's other hand and gently tracing the veins visible on the back. A sudden feeling of exhaustion engulfed Peter, though he didn't want to say anything lest he offended his companion. Their small heaven was safe between their shaky forms, and Pete thought about the nature of their relationship as Michael wrapped his spindly fingers around his wrist gently.

"Do you wanna sleep?" Michael asked, though the other was certain he knew the answer already. Still, he felt nervous at the notion, he'd never fallen asleep with another person before.

"That would be nice," was all he said, before adding, "I'm not changing though," sleeping in his clothes was a practice he indulged in only on nights he was too drunk or strung out on medicine he wasn't supposed to be taking, nights when he'd drag himself home after Henrietta forced him to go to clubs with her. Still, his bones felt too weak to move and he simply fell back on the bed he was sitting on, shuffling around so he could squirm underneath the covers.

Michael raised a brow, though he got up off the chair and did the same, the bed creaking gently at their weight. Pete shut his eyes, weary of the distance between their forms as Michael hesitated to even touch him. Outside, the snow fell with great intensity and Pete fell asleep to the thought of horrible Christmas movies and the gentle sound of Michael's breathing.


	10. Chapter 10

_And I've got a memory like a loaded gun._  
_ The future belongs to us._  
_ Call me a sinner, we have too much fun _  
_ Let's go on this way._

_"Angry Mulch" - Voxtrot_

* * *

Pete Grey stirred awake slowly, opening his eyes before blinking incessantly and trying to focus on his surroundings. The room was illuminated only by the light from the night sky reflecting against the snow outside, the gentle glow peeking into the room and landing subtly on the bed. He sat up and looked at the figure next to him, curled tightly into himself, and extended a hand to brush through his hair idly. No thoughts wandered through his mind, sated by a soft curl he wrapped his index finger around. He noticed the other boy frown for a second before his eyes slid open and traveled up Pete's arm to his face. Suddenly, the younger of the two felt very insecure about his actions and moved his hand away.

Michael watched as he sat in place and rubbed at his eyes, still not fully awake.

"What time is it?" the taller boy asked, though it resembled a mumble as the side of his face was firmly planted in the pillow. Pete only shrugged, to which Michael let a smile creep across his features for a second, "I agree."

"I am pretty sure it's an appropriate time to be laying here, though," Pete managed, cracking his knuckles as he blinked the last bit of sleep away.

"Time is a farce created by a society that can't tell its head from its ass, therefore any time is an appropriate time to be laying here," he paused, "or something."

"Or something," Pete repeated, watching the other sit up as well, hunched over in the shadows. He couldn't help but think of how he resembled a looming monstrous creature from a child's nightmare, though he was certain Michael was neither looming nor monstrous. His eyes danced across the other's hand, his spindly fingers and bony knuckles, before his own hand darted forward, threading their fingers together as he silently hoped the taller boy would accept his advances. He felt the incredible urge to kiss him again, like earlier that night, but he was incredibly uncertain.

"I think we've gone beyond hand-holding by now," he said, "or does my mouth offend you horribly and you want it nowhere near yours?" and Pete thought about how he must have had psychic powers. He felt incapable of responding, so he simply shook his head and let himself shift closer.

He felt Michael do the same and he became hyperaware of the soft exhale ghosting across his lips, before it was replaced with skin. It was a strange sensation, one he wasn't quite used to, but he felt at home nonetheless. Michael's hand found his arm and his own found the older boy's neck and rubbed the back of it gently, urging him forward. He felt the hand slowly reach across to his back, fingers gently pressing against his skin as he remembered he was still wearing the clothes he wore when they got to his house.

His phone, which stood on his desk, vibrated to life, the screen lighting up and illuminating a small part of the room. Still, he chose to ignore it, certain both he and Michael had received several messages from the people they abandoned at Henrietta Biggle's house. The reality of their actions hit Pete in that moment, and he was certain something important had happened when he and the other boy left the party earlier that night, that they set a fate for themselves they might not have been aware of. Or perhaps it was the fact that he had no idea what time it was, and the bed still called out to him, his bones aching to go back to sleep.

"Do you think she hates us?" Michael asked, tipping his head back and staring at the dark ceiling, blinking slowly, "Henrietta, I mean."

"Maybe. I'm a bit wary of finding out," he admitted, laying back down and sighing at the feeling of warmth that instantly engulfed him. He felt the taller boy's fingertips on his side as he did the same, making it a point to shift closer to him, "though this is a fairly pleasant alternative," he said, though he felt rather bashful at his own words.

Michael offered no response, though he pressed their noses together gently, shutting his eyes. Sleep came slower for Pete this time, he remained focused on the figure in front of him, Michael's soft breathing with the occasional hiccup. Still, he managed to fall asleep again, though he felt anxiety resonate in his bones even as he drifted off.

When he awoke for the second time, daylight had poured in through the window and he quickly squinted his eyes at the glaring sunlight that spread all across his bedroom. Michael had woken up before him, and he stood in front of the mirror fiddling with a few stray strands of hair that refused to be tamed. Pete silently observed the taller boy's ceremonial attempts at calming the mess of curls atop his head before yawning and getting up. Michael seemed to realize he was not alone, and turned around to look at the other boy.

The younger of the two felt very self conscious at his tired self and most likely red and puffy eyes and messy hair, and he prayed he hadn't drooled in his sleep or committed any similar offense. He watched as Michael reached across to the desk where his pack of cigarettes sat before tapping the back. Handing one to Pete, he grabbed his own which was burning in an offensively white colored ashtray and took a drag while Pete fumbled looking for his lighter. Finally, he dug one out of his front pocket and watched as the flame engulfed the tip, inhaling softly. Quickly, however, he snatched it from his mouth as he felt the urge for caffeine erupt from his veins.

"Hey, do you want some coffee? I mean I'm pretty terrible at making it," he clarified, sitting down on the floor and thus inviting his older companion to do the same. Michael grabbed the ashtray and set it down between them.

"I would very gladly drink your terrible coffee," Michael replied, voice hoarse with sleep. His eyeliner had smeared while he slept, Pete noticed, though he couldn't help but think it did little to distract from how exquisite he looked, and the younger boy suddenly felt the strong urge to kiss him. He collected all the strength he could find in his bones, but didn't dare move across the floor and press his lips against the other boy's. Instead, he watched silently until Michael noticed his gaze and quirked a brow.

Quickly, Pete averted his eyes and extended an arm out towards the other, who grabbed his hand and squeezed gently as he shifted closer. He could feel his chest tighten as Michael's form towered slightly above his, certain if he came any closer they would merge together. When the taller boy placed a tentative kiss on his forehead, he was certain his heart would stop. He tried to shake the thought away and buried his face in Michael's neck, sighing gently against his skin.

His phone vibrated once again, the screen indicating several unread text messages. Still, he felt no inclination to move, instead letting Michael's fingers in his hair provide the slightest amount of comfort. Confronting Henrietta, or rather, being confronted by her, was unavoidable and Pete was aware of that. However, it was something that could wait, he thought, pressing a gentle kiss to Michael's neck. Sunlight poured in through the window, the sound of birds chirping and cars passing was prominent.

Above him, he heard Michael's voice: "You should probably see what Henrietta wants. I'll take care of coffee," and he released the other from his arms. Blinking, Pete reached across and grabbed his phone, watching as his companion walked out of the room. He sifted through the text messages he received from the girl, observing as her mood changed from furious to confused to furious again. Finally, he reached the final message.

_'Meet me at the Village Inn.'_


	11. Chapter 11

_ But I miss, reaching for the lasers_  
_ The sound of the beat is eight clicks away_  
_ Classes, school behavior_  
_ Sweating the night out of the sky_  
_ Learning to laugh and not ask why_

_"Steven" - Voxtrot_

* * *

Pete read the message aloud before giving Michael a contemplative glance, a silent question of whether they should attend, as he feared they might have to argue. He hoped they wouldn't, and as they scrambled to their feet, he wondered if they'd even done anything particularly terrible. He internally rationalized their absence, attempting to convince himself it wasn't their fault. Still, he couldn't help but feel guilty.

The drive to the Village Inn was agonizing as Pete's mind was engulfed in anxieties and uneasiness. He was wary of the entire ordeal, and after getting out of the car and entering the restaurant, he was certain he would vomit when he spotted their friend sitting alone in a booth. Immediately, their eyes met and she gestured for them to sit across from her. Once they did, Pete was convinced all hell would break loose. Instead, he and Michael were met with Henrietta Biggle's harsh deadpan.

_"What the fuck?" _she said, "where did you guys go?"

"I was," Pete began, "or, well, we were, rather," he paused, stumbling over his thoughts, "a bit uncomfortable with all the people so we stepped outside. But it was really cold, so we went to my house instead."

"_Oh_," she blinked before furrowing her brows, "so you didn't bail on purpose?" this was met with both boys shaking their heads, which prompted her to continue, "okay, then. I mean... fuck, me and Firkle were worried. You should have said something."

"You're not gonna yell?" the shorter boy offered a confused glance, to which Henrietta shook her head.

"I sent you like 15 angry texts, I think I'm good now," she waved her hand in dismissal as she elaborated, "regardless, you guys are buying lunch tomorrow," she paused briefly, "Oh, do you wanna go to my house? Firkle's there."

The younger boy felt relief engulf his bones and hold them snugly together as he answered affirmatively. The three of them made their way to Michael's car, Henrietta and Pete both sitting in the back. The vehicle was rather cold and Pete wrapped his arms around his torso in an attempt to preserve warmth. As the engine awakened and the car radio concealed any noise, Henrietta gave her friend a slight nudge with her elbow before leaning closer and whispering.

"Did you guys fuck?"

"What? Oh my god," Pete whispered back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, "no. I- what?" he stared at her incredulously, though her facial expression was as dull as ever before a grin slowly replaced it.

"I'm kidding, holy shit," she laughed, her voice going high, though her hand immediately darted up to cover her mouth. Pete only sighed and shook his head in response, trying to conceal a smile that threatened to make its way across his features. When they arrived at the Biggle house's driveway and the car slowed to a halt, Pete was the first to exit the vehicle, followed by his two companions. They shuffled through the snow, up to the front door and inside.

The first thing both Pete and Michael noticed was the pungent smell of clove cigarettes and alcohol, it seemed to have clung to every piece of furniture and the older of the two gave a soft cough at the stuffy air. The state of the house left something to be desired, the living room in particular was a mess of bottles, wrapping paper and empty bags of snack foods. Pete observed this manifest of feral humans, what they'd left behind, before following his friends up the stairs and into Henrietta's room.

"Firkle's nursing a bit of a hangover," she clarified, pointing to her bed, where the youngest member of their group was lying on his back and staring at the ceiling with what Pete could only imagine was infinite hatred and regret, "I gave him some Tylenol and a sandwich, he should be fine in a few hours," there was little sign of life from their young friend besides slight rhythmic movement to indicate breathing.

"You guys," Firkle began, voice hoarse and strained, "I'm dying."

"Eat your sandwich, you'll be alright," Michael replied, patting him on the leg as he sat down at the end of the bed.

"Fuck you too, dude," though a chuckle was heard in his voice, and he slowly sat up, "I feel like I just came back from the dead," and he dragged a hand down his face, "or something. Thanks for the scarf."

"Oh, uh," Michael exhaled, "anytime."

Henrietta and Pete sat down on the floor, both facing Michael, though he quickly joined them on the floor as well. The girl watched in amusement as Michael and Pete slowly shifted closer, stopping only when Pete noticed her stare. He gave her a halfhearted glare in return, to which she tossed a pack of cigarettes at his general direction. As she noticed him tapping the back, she reached across, grabbed an ash tray and set it down between the three of them. Within minutes, each of them held a cigarette and the room was quickly enveloped with a white translucent film. Pete squinted, realizing the smoke had rendered his friends a blurry version of what they once were as he watched Firkle get off the bed and sit down beside them.

He extended a hand, to which Henrietta passed her lighter to him. The stuffy air was difficult to inhale, and Pete put out his cigarette on the ash tray between them as he wondered how long it would take for Henrietta to get fed up enough to crack the window open.

"Do you guys feel old?" Henrietta asked, "I mean," she paused briefly, "we're seniors, but I don't know what the fuck to do with myself."

"Yeah," Pete said, "I guess we just... I don't know, do things we like. I'm good with just doing this for the time being," he looked up at the ceiling, "chain smoking with you guys to a soundtrack."

"I wish it could be like this forever," Firkle chimed in.

Pete inhaled sharply in silent agreement, finding Michael's free hand and threading their fingers together. There was comfort in the soft squeeze Michael gave as he brushed his thumb along Pete's skin. The older boy's response to the gesture, however, was to hold his cigarette up in front of the other's face, watching as Pete grabbed it between his teeth before taking a drag. Quickly enough, Michael plucked the item from Pete's mouth and rolled off the excess ash.

"I knew it!" Henrietta said, "you guys are gonna abandon us and make out in Michael's car all day," she joked, laughing as Pete breathed out an 'oh my god' and Firkle became a mess of snickering and coughing from the excess smoke. Once the laughter died down, there was solidarity in their individual uncertainty, and Pete wondered whether, if he could read their minds, he would find they were as scared as he was. Henrietta stood up and walked over to the window, opening it before sitting back down, "Firkle's right," she began, "I wish it could be like this forever too."

_The end._


End file.
